Finkleburg's Army
by dracosdramaqueen
Summary: Dr. Finkleburg has perfected the virus to turn people into zombies. Stuck in a veritable zombie death trap, six Catholic school children must stay together to survive. Otherwise, they'll be eaten. And that sucks.
1. Introduction

Finkleburg's Army

**Introduction**

A scream can seem so commonplace at night. Almost expected; part of the scenery. After all, screams like this one had been ripping through both day and nighttime for the last week or so, and anyone within earshot sort of shrugged it off as another lost cause. Any _thing _within earshot—now that was a different story. Those anythings heard the scream and turned, slowly—they were incapable of speed, of course—and walked, if you could call it walking, toward the girl, though she was hardly a girl any more. A tattered plaid skirt and a white collared shirt dirtied with streaks of grime and blood clung to her shuddering frame as she covered her mouth with her fingers, disbelieving she had done it, had screamed, had been so obvious. She stood with her feet planted on the sidewalk as spasms worked their way down her spine, unable to move as the shadows became the things she had been running from. Casting one last fleeting glance at what had made her scream, her legs filled with momentum and she fled—felt her hands slam into a fence, beating it until blood sprang between the webs of her fingers and slashed across her palms. As the moans grew louder behind her, she gripped the links in frenzy, shoving her feet into the square gaps and wrenching herself upward in a few desperate pulls. A scabby hand grabbed at her ankle, she shook it off and didn't bother to climb down, hearing something snap beneath her as her mouth filled with blood. She heaved herself up and ran blindly away from the fence, clutching her wrist, slammed into something made of brick. She found a way around the wall and crouched behind it. She did not scream this time—she did not have to.


	2. Chapter 1

"Grace?"

"Grace?"

"Grace!"

"Shhhhh."

"Sorry."

"Shhhhh!"

"Sorry!"

"Gene, if you don't shut up, I swear I'll take this bat and—"

"Frank! Focus. We're here to find Grace."

"Sorry Duane."

"You too, Gene, try to be a little more quiet."

"Sorry."

A motley crew at best, these boys. There's Duane, darker than the others, with eyes that never stopped moving, not exactly clutching his golf club, but most certainly in command of it. He wasn't as tall as Frank, but not many are, and the dented wooden bat he held had earned its scars both on and off the baseball field. Of course there's Gene, whose parents were British, who carried a hockey stick, who, when he wasn't talking, was apologizing. Finally, there was Bentley, the only one to choose plaid over khaki pants, quite deft with a tennis racket. Most people just called him Bent.

"I think she's dead."

"Shut up, Gene!"

"Sorry, Frank, but I do."

Bent stepped on something and cursed softly

"Wow, mates, that's a poodle, that is. Or was. S'funny, 'cause Grace loved them stupid little dogs." Even Frank couldn't respond to this. There was silence for a few more moments, as Duane's eyes darted, and Ed picked at his racket strings, and Frank simmered. And Gene couldn't hold it in any longer—

"Huh, it looks like we're trying out for a bloody sports team."

"It wasn't funny the first time, Gene, and it's not funny now." Frank remembered not to yell, barely. Duane spoke again.

"Guys, we're here to find Grace. Keep your voices down, or—they'll hear us. Grace? Grace!"

"I'm telling you, she's not going to answer, because she's _dead_." Frank, showing impeccable restraint, chose not to answer yet again. Gene laid his hockey stick up against a brick wall and hopped up onto it, inspecting his fingernails and swinging his legs as if he were back behind a desk and not downtown the middle of the night. The other boys fanned out, looking for Grace with half a heart and less of a whisper.

Frank saw them coming out from behind the wall, bounded over in two short strides, felt skull connect with wood and swept Gene off all in one motion. The four boys formed an arrow with Duane at the tip, sporting goods at the ready. Agonizingly slowly, the hands and heads behind the wall began to take shape in twisted forms and gaping mouths and sunken eyes and blood and blood and blood _everywhere_—the ripped off arms, the groping hands, but most of all on the mouths from which came a moaning like no human could produce. And the boys formed an arrow with Duane at the tip, weapons at the ready. And they backed up as slowly as the things in front of them moved until Bent's back connected with a fence. The soft swish of metal awoke Duane, who charged, feeling his hands grow warm on the golf club's grip as he swung down on the first figure with all his might.


End file.
